What Dreams May Come
by KRRouse
Summary: Deagol's life was almost perfect, until the day he made a discovery that would cost him that life. For centuries he lived in paradise, unaware of the fate that Smeagol had endured...until it was too late. How far will he go to right a terrible wrong?
1. A LongAwaited Arrival

Disclaimer: I do not own Deagol, Smeagol, or the movie "what Dreams May Come", which a lot of this story is borrowed from. Great movie. Robing Williams is an incredible actor.  
  
(AUTHOR'S NOTICE: THIS STORY DEALS WITH THE CONCEPT OF THE AFTERLIFE. IT HAS BEEN GENERALIZED AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, SO AS NOT TO ANGER ANY READERS.)  
  
What Dreams May Come  
  
His name was Smeagol.  
  
He was different from most boys his age, though to ask him, he'd say that they were different from him. The fact remained, though, that a huge gap separated the two.  
  
There was always something that drew me to him; a uniqueness, a mysteriousness that only I seemed to have a loose understanding of. We spent most of our time together, though to this day, I'm not sure why. Maybe it was because we had a lot in common, or that I was curious about him, or maybe it was just the simple fact that we were cousins, and as a result saw each other quite often. Again, I have yet to realize why.  
  
I suppose I was a bit different myself. Not as solitary or soft-spoken as Smeagol, but still different. I preferred his company to others'.  
  
"Stop worrying." he said, sitting beside me. "You're mother isn't even this worked up!"  
  
"I can't help it. The wait's killing me!"  
  
The sun seemed exceptionally bright today, hanging over our heads and beating down on the small clearing on the river bank where we sat. We'd gone down to fish, but so far, I'd been able to do nothing but watch Smeagol. I was nervous. My hands were shaking; I could barely grip my fishing pole. Even sitting on my hands didn't help.  
  
He blinked his sapphire eyes and stared fixedly at the ring of ripples surrounding his hook in the water. I squinted up at the sun and began scratching my palms, which had suddenly become itchy.  
  
Smeagol saw this, and figured I wanted to talk. "What are they going to call it?"  
  
"Beragol if it's a boy; Freda if it's a girl."  
  
"Nice names."  
  
"Yeah..." I kicked at the water, looked up at the sun again, then went back to watching the hook. "Think I'll make a good brother?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You know; some one for him to look up to. Give him advise. That kind of thing."  
  
"Deagol. Relax." He said, almost laughing. "The kid hasn't even been born yet."  
  
"I know. It's just...I've never been a big brother before. I'm just worried."  
  
"Why? You've known about it for eight and a half months."  
  
"You're missing the point here, Smeagol."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"It's like..." I sat on my hands again, "I just had this all dumped on top of me. I mean, It's just me and Mother, now..."  
  
This got his attention. He looked at me oddly, and I pretended to be interested in something in the grass. A lump rose in my throat as I plucked half-heartedly at the dark green blades.  
  
"That's what this is about, isn't it?" he asked somberly. I nodded and leaned forward, arms folded over my lap.  
  
"It's been almost three months. I...I just don't know what to do. It's like I have to fill in for him."  
  
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to meet his eye.  
  
"You'll do just fine. Just wait and see." He looked back out at his hook. There was barely a ripple.  
  
"Do you see anything, yet?"  
  
"No; the way we've been talking here, I doubt anything's going to come over. Guess I'll just have to this the old-fashioned way and dive in after it."  
  
Despite myself, I laughed. "That was a real winner, wasn't it?"  
  
"Hey, I never would have went in if you hadn't pushed me," he said jokingly.  
  
"I didn't push you!"  
  
"Yes you did! Right in! You pushed me right in!"  
  
"I was just being encouraging! It was just a pat on the back!"  
  
"Oh, you pushed me."  
  
"Well...I might have patted a little too hard."  
  
"Exactly!" he said, holding up a finger. I rolled my eyes.  
  
He lifted his line out of the water. "Never gets old, fishing. Way I see it, we'll be sitting here when we're eighty, still trying to catch a fish."  
  
"That's inevitable. You never catch anything."  
  
He looked at me. "Yes I do," he said lamely.  
  
"Not recently."  
  
"I caught one."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Few months ago. Remember? We were out in a boat?"  
  
"Oh. Yeah, you did."  
  
"Two actually, if you include that one you...so encouragingly patted me in after."  
  
Feeling this had ended the argument in his favor, he got up and began walking off into the trees.  
  
"...Yeah, but that wasn't with a hook!" I shouted, staggering to my feet and hurrying after him.  
  
* * *  
  
The day had come two weeks later. I don't suppose I shall ever forgive myself for not being there when it happened, but it came so sudden that it couldn't be helped.  
  
Smeagol and I had been fishing at the clearing, as always, when Myla Hardkennel, a friend of my mother's, had come running out of the trees behind us, shouting my name. I found it odd that she'd known exactly where to find our favorite fishing spot, considering that she'd never held a conversation with me once in our lives.  
  
I'd turned and stare at her blankly, wondering the above thought, when she'd come to a stop and gasped, "You've got to come home now!"  
  
"Why?"  
  
She'd taken a deep breath, and said "It's a boy."  
  
Smeagol would not let me forget my reaction to this for several weeks. I'd leapt to my feet exclaiming "What?!" and then "Tell me what I missed!" back to him when Myla had clarified that I now had a brother. I'd run into the woods, dragging my fishing line behind me.  
  
I'd burst through the door and come face-to-face with my mother, who just smiled at me. She looked tired, as she had for a while now, but there was something different in her eyes this time, something new. A feeling of ease, a peacefulness, like a heavy load had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. For the first time in months, she looked happy.  
  
She'd nodded towards the door to her room, and after a moment's hesitation, I'd gone inside.  
  
The first thing I'd noticed was the crib, sitting by the bed. I was trembling as I walked up to it, unsure of what to expect for some reason. Carefully, I'd placed a hand on the rail and leaned over to look inside...  
  
And there he was. He stared up at me, blinking curiously with large, brown eyes. Eyes like mine.  
  
I'd smiled down at him, and slowly, ever so slowly, I parted my lips and spoke. "Hello, Beragol..." 


	2. Time of Innoscence

Disclaimer: Smeagol and Deagol belong to Tolkein. I do not own the movie "What Dreams May Come."  
  
What Dreams May Come  
  
"He does look like you."  
  
"Yes; it's the eyes."  
  
"No, I mean he really looks like you" Smeagol insisted, turning his head sideways and he looked in the crib.  
  
"I only see it in the eyes."  
  
"Yeah, they're pretty big. Distract you a little, but he definitely looks like you."  
  
"Right," I said, half-listening.  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "What's with you? You've been going on about this for months. Now the kid's here and you haven't said two words."  
  
"I know; I'm just taking it all in." I looked back in the crib. "Still trying to recover from yesterday's excitement."  
  
"Certainly was exciting. I'll wager you were quite the spectacle running home through the town like that."  
  
"That goes without saying," I said with a laugh. There was a brief silence as we sat, watching Beragol sleep.  
  
Then, "What's that?"  
  
Smeagol nodded to the lump beside Beragol. A tiny corner of the object was exposed; a pale brown, furry-looking corner.  
  
I reached down, carefully pulling back the edge of my mother's old quilt. "Used to be mine when I was little. Figured he'd get more use out of it than me."  
  
"I remember this guy," he said, a tiny smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. He nudged slightly at the teddy bear. "You actually kept it for eighteen years?"  
  
"You never know when you might need to find those sort of things again. They pop up by themselves anyway, like they're just asking to be used."  
  
"True," he leaned back and glanced towards the window.  
  
"Things always have a way of popping up again after a while."  
  
I stared at him oddly. He returned the look, as though he too was trying to make sense of his words.  
  
There was a pause, then we both broke out into sudden—but quiet—laugher.  
  
* * *  
  
I shook my head. "No, Beragol."  
  
"But you promised!" he protested, hurrying to keep up with me. Time had turned him into a wily, ever-active seven-year-old, and my mother and I into paranoid caretakers who spent nearly all our lives watching him like a hawk. He was young, and his curiosity often got the better of him. Once, while reaching under the kitchen table to retrieve something, I had gotten up to find him standing on top of the pantry, which was over a meter tall.  
  
It was because of this that I was trying to reason my way out of bringing him with me that summer afternoon.  
  
"I promised I would take you fishing someday; not today. Besides, you can't swim."  
  
"I can learn," he offered lamely. "Why would I have to swim anyway? You just sit on the bank."  
  
"Not today, Beragol. We're taking the boat out this time. After about three years, we started to notice we weren't catching anything. We're going to try going out on the lake this time."  
  
"What about tomorrow? Can I go tomorrow?"  
  
"Do you think you'll know how to swim tomorrow?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
I just laughed and shook my head. "Sorry, Beragol. It'll be too hard to keep an eye on you if you come. You have to be really quiet and stay really still when you're fishing."  
  
"That's no fun."  
  
"You know," I said, sparking at the comment, "it isn't very fun. At any rate, not to a seven-year-old boy. But when you're old like Smeagol and me, it's all you can do, so you learn to like it."  
  
I steered him down the hallway as I spoke, searching for my mother.  
  
"How old is Smeagol gonna be?"  
  
"Thirty-three."  
  
"That's not old. I heard that Austol Footrunner's a hundred!"  
  
"Who told you that?"  
  
"You did."  
  
"Yes...Well, Mother's in there, so go in there with her, alright? Think you can handle walking from here to there without knocking anything down?"  
  
"Yes," he frowned, recognizing that I was teasing. I squatted down to be eye-level with him.  
  
"Hey, I'll see you later, alright?"  
  
"When are you coming home?"  
  
"Depends. Probably late. You might be asleep when I come back."  
  
"I can stay up."  
  
I smiled, exchanging a quick hug with him.  
  
"I love you," I'd said to him, and then I'd stood, watching as he'd ran into the other room to sit and watch my mother knit. Then I'd turned and walked to the door, stepping outside and closing it behind me.  
  
It was the last time Beragol and I ever saw each other alive. 


	3. A Fatal Discovery

Disclaimer: I do not own Deagol, Smeagol, or the movies "What Dreamsd May Come" or "Return of the King."  
  
What Dreams May Come  
  
"That worm won't hook itself, you know."  
  
He laughed, but remained hunched over, watching it squirm in his hand. Then slowly, he held his hook up beside it, studying both.  
  
I paid it no mind. Smeagol was always off in his own world, collecting rocks and fish bones on the shore; watching insects burrowing into trees; admiring objects that most others, myself included, looked on as worthless trinkets.  
  
It was just one of the many differences that made him. . .well, Smeagol.  
  
* * *  
  
There was always something I found unnerving about boats. They seemed so clumsy, always rocking back and forth with each movement, threatening to tip over. I didn't like the feeling. Unfortunately, I would have to endure it if I ever wanted to catch anything. The fish seemed to figure out where the clearing on the bank was, and were avoiding it.  
  
Smeagol finally cast his now-baited line into the water and leaned forward, waiting.  
  
I watched my hook with baited breath. Five months. Five months of coming home empty-handed, save for those few occasions in the boat, and even then the results were poor. There was a period in time where Smeagol and I had even gone so far as too fish by the river with the other hobbits, which was no thrill for either of us.  
  
So we'd gone down to the docks, found us a boat, and by some miracle managed to drag it over to the lake all by ourselves.  
  
Everything was silent now. No birds in the trees, no frogs on the banks; I couldn't even hear my own breathing. And everything seemed frozen. Every ripple, every tree branch stood perfectly still, like a painting—  
  
There was a sharp twitch in my hands as my fishing pole jerked forward. I jumped slightly, eyes wide.  
  
A short pause, then another twitch, and I nearly dropped my pole. Something was pulling on my line.  
  
". . .Smeagol! I've got one!" I exclaimed, finally spotting the dark shape under the water. "I've got a fish, Smeagol!"  
  
He spun around, his blue eyes lit with amazement, and gazed at the end of my line as it spun and shook violently beneath the surface.  
  
"Go on. Go on, pull it up!" he said with anticipation.  
  
My hands trembled as I began to lift my catch from the water. I couldn't believe it. A fish! A FISH! I finally caught one! And I was in a BOAT!  
  
After what felt like an eternity of pulling, I realized that I was making no progress. Every move I made to pull the fish in was responded to with a tug back from the other end of my pole. I grappled for a foothold, trying to lean back as far as I could without losing my grip. This fish was a fighter—  
  
It all happened in a second.  
  
First, there was a sudden, bone-rattling yank, and I lost my footing. Then, I was pulled forward, too surprised to attempt to stop myself. The boat tilted sharply, and I was dragged out.  
  
. . .Into the water.  
  
SPLASH!  
  
For a moment, I did nothing. I simply held onto my pole as the giant catfish proceeded to drag me along. He was huge; nearly half as big as me. Far too great a catch to pass up. I had to get to shore somehow, maybe tie the line around a tree, or possibly try to grab the fish and carry him out...  
  
AIR!  
  
The thought came to my mind instantly, pushing aside my plans. My lungs were screaming!  
  
AIR! AIR!  
  
How far was I from the surface? Could I keep a hold on my line while swimming up?  
  
AIR!  
  
There was a moment of hesitation, then reluctantly, I surrendered my grip on the pole and began swimming madly away. Had to get to the surface! Had to hurry! Had to—  
  
Something bright caught my eye, a gleam of light almost. I Stopped swimming and squinted down.  
  
Even in the murky water I could see it. A small, barely noticeable trinket, a ring, shining dully in the afternoon sun. Shining. . .  
  
Allowing curiosity to get the better of me, I reached down, scooping it up, and continued my pursuit to the surface.  
  
As it turned out, I was only a few feet from the bank, and could even spot the clearing from my surfacing point. Quickly, I made my way towards it. Crummy boat. This wouldn't have happened if I hadn't gone out in it. Curse it! Curse it!  
  
I pulled myself out of the water, coughing up the muddy water, and stood up, sighing.  
  
Then I looked down at the object in my hand.  
  
"Deagol!"  
  
Slowly I swirled the mud in my palm, brushing it away, searching for the treasure underneath. Where was it? Where was it under all this mud? Nasty mud. . .  
  
"Deagol!"  
  
I could hear him running up behind me, stopping to catch his breath, looking over my shoulder.  
  
There! I pushed the mud aside. There it was, gleaming brightly in the sun. So bright. . .so beautiful. . .our—  
  
"Give us that, Deagol my love." Smeagol said behind me. His voice was thin, almost purring, like it came from the back of his throat.  
  
I spun around. How dare he! How dare he ask for it? It was ours; we found it!  
  
"Why?" I sneered.  
  
"Because it's my birthday," he purred again, a gleam in his eye, "and I wants it!"  
  
He leaned in closer, gazing at it intently. Suddenly, he lunged for it, trying to snatch it out of my hand. I pulled away. He advanced, scrambling to get the ring as I held it behind my back. I jumped back, and still he pursued me.  
  
I lashed out at him, trying to push him away. No good, no! He was tricksy; tricksy and sly like our fish, oh how we almost caught it! Almost had it grasped in our handses, writhing and thrashing!  
  
Lashing out, wrapping our hands around his neck, squeezing. . .squeezing so hard! Yes, love, you squirms, you does! Squirms like nasty fish. You tried to takes it from us, you did, Precious, but it's ours. It came to us!  
  
Even as he struggled, he met my gaze. I froze for a second, hands still gripping. I stood there, staring into those eyes, such bright eyes. . .and I saw anger.  
  
Anger for me.  
  
It distracted me for a second, made me loosen my grip. He jerked back, freeing himself, and lunged at me one last time.  
  
I tried to fight back. Tried to pry the fingers from my throat, but couldn't. It was all happening so fast. I was fading, legs kicking uselessly on the ground. Arms flailing weakly. The world was spinning; spinning wildly.  
  
And the spinning grew slower...slower...slower...  
  
Stop. 


	4. The Truth Unveiled

(Disclaimer: I own nothing.)

**What Dreams May Come**

The first thing I was aware of was the sound. A slow, distant pounding, thumping rhythmically behind my ears. A heartbeat, I thought.

Then I became aware of the dizziness in my head. The queasiness in my stomach. The tightness in my throat.

My arms were trembling. I was breathing slowly, wincing at the pain that stabbed my lungs with each inhale.

It was in this moment that I realized I could not feel the ground beneath me. I didn't even feel like I was lying down.

"Deagol?"

Startled, I snapped my eyes open, only to shut them again as I was greeted with a blinding white light.

"Deagol," the voice, an older hobbit man's, said again.

"What?" I murmured, my voice weakened from dizziness.

"Do you know what's happened?"

I thought back, trying to sift through the thoughts swarming through my head. So many questions. So many emotions. So many memories.

After a moment, I opened my mouth slowly and managed to say, "I fell out of a boat."

There was no response. I opened my eyes again and saw whiteness. Brilliant whiteness all around me, shining at me from everywhere. But I saw no one else; no hobbit beside me.

". . .Who are you?" I asked in a stronger voice. "What's going on? What's happening to me, Captain? Why can't I see you?"

The next instant, I felt a hard surface beneath my feet, pressing up at me. A floor.

I felt strength in my legs again, along with the sensation of dizziness as I began adjusting to my sudden standing position.

Once I had regained my balance, I looked around to find myself surrounded by a swirl of tan and brown. I could pick out shapes in the blur, like I was looking at a painting that had been smudged. I was in an empty room. A kitchen.

My kitchen.

"It's my house."

"Yes," the voice said again. "So natural for us hobbits. We always hurry home when we feel uneasy about something."

I blinked down at my hands, but saw noting but two smeared, pale shapes in front of me. "My hands!"

"You're still adjusting. It's always hard to see at first, but you'll be alright soon."

"How soon?" I asked, unable to tear my gaze away from my hands, their thin fingers reaching outward, blending with the swirls behind them.

"Everything shall be clear in time."

"In time," I mumbled, finally lowering my hands. I jerked my head to the right as the faint sound of voices from the next room became clear.

"What are those voices?"

"Friends. Relatives. A few acquaintances."

"All in my house?"

"Go see what they're talking about, Deagol."

I carefully made my way to the door, entering a room filled with hobbits, all talking and murmuring among themselves. All of them were blurs.

Slowly I scanned their faces, trying to recognize their distorted features.

"What is this, Captain?" I asked. I stood on my toes, craning my neck to see over the others' heads. "What happened?"

There was a pause, then he spoke.

"You died, Deagol."

I froze in an instant. Died? How? When?

The images in my head were beginning to sort together. I began to recall events. Older ones at first, then more recent.

I saw images. Images of. . .a boat! Images of a lake, a shore, a clearing among the weeds.

Images of Smeagol.

And then a ring in my hand, shining, shining so bright. . .

Then fighting. Clawing, scratching, kicking. Hands around my throat, squeezing tighter, tighter. The world spinning; spinning slower, then stopping. . .

I felt like I'd been slapped in the face.

"This is a dream," I breathed, stumbling for a second. "This has to be."

"Whom are you trying to convince?" the older hobbit asked skeptically.

I shook my head. "If I were dead, I would know it!"

"Would you? How would you know?"

"Well..." I pondered this question for a moment. "I'd feel...different. Cold, perhaps."

The crowd continued to swarm around me, never stopping.

Never glancing at me.

Never seeing.

"No!"

I began hurrying back to the door. "This isn't real. This isn't really happening. The boat! I must have hit my head when I fell out! This is all just a dream—"

That was I heard her voice.

"I can't understand. It can't be true! No! It's not true!"

My mother.

"Oh, Malva, don't cry," another voice, Myla's, said, "I'm sure he's somewhere better."

I began wading my way through the crowd, following the two voices.

"Mother!" I shouted. "Mother! I'm right over here!"

"She cannot hear you, Deagol," said the older hobbit's voice. "Nor can she see you. You are not of her world anymore."

I ignored him and continued making my way through. I had to see her. I had to find my mother.

"But how do I know?" she sobbed from off to my right. "How do I know he's alright?"

"You have to trust that he is. Just tell yourself that he's with Ingol now."

"Ingol..."

My mother buried her face in her hands.

"Things were going so well. I was finally starting to recover, and now Deagol, MY Deagol's gone. I can't live like this, Myla. How much more will this go on? How much longer?"

I was standing in front of her, watching silently as she went on. Then slowly, I began to take in the words. She was grieving.

Grieving for me.

Because I was...

"No."

"It's always hard to accept at first, Deagol."

I wanted to respond. I wanted so terribly to protest, to tell him he was wrong.

To my surprise though, I couldn't, and simply closed my eyes as the world filled with whiteness, blinding me once again.


	5. In the Shadows

**What Dreams May Come**

I was outside. The sky, pale and empty, swirled above me in gray and white. Around me, the grass shown dark green; black almost. It was morning.

"Where am I now, Captain?"

"You might not want to stay here long, Deagol," the older hobbit said. His voice was low, hinted with a tone of somberness. "This is your grave."

A dark shape suddenly caught my eye. A lone figure, clad in black, standing silently by the hillside. I could just make out the shape of stone at the figure's feet.

A tomb stone.

After a second's hesitation, I slowly made my way over to the figure. Even from this distance, I recognized her, with her dark, shoulder-length hair and tired black eyes.

My mother's gaze was unmoving; fixed on the stone. I knelt down carefully to study it, running my fingers over the smooth surface.

"Why isn't it rough? It feels like a normal stone."

"It only appears as a painted image. Your eyes do not see properly, but your other senses can understand their surroundings. Your feelings tell you everything; you refuse to see."

After a moment, my index finger stopped over a small crevice, a letter carved into the rock. I traced along the lines, concentrating on its shape.

It was a "D."

I continued tracing the letters, filling with dream as I whispered them, slowly spelling them out.

"E...A...G...O..." I lowered my eyes. "...L."

I turned to look up at my mother.

"How is she?"

"It's hard for her," the Captain said "but she's coping."

"How?"

"She knows she has to. She cannot afford to break down now."

"Why not?" I asked, trying to fight back the constriction in my throat.

"Your mother still has one son," he said dully "And she needs to be strong for him."

My eyes widened. "Beragol!"

----------

The house was dark.

I recognized our room, with its single, rounded window and curved ceiling. The floor in one corner was littered with papers and books. Resting on top of the heap was the crudely-drawn image of a bullfrog, its feet too small, legless, crowded underneath its round body; its ogling green eyes uneven and crossed slightly, its bulging throat larger than the body itself. I recognized it as one of Beragol's.

It was night out. The moon was full, casting a feint light into the room, enabling me to see.

I could see.

"I can see now, Captain," I said with amazement. "Things are clear!"

I looked down at my hands, and whatever happiness I had scraped from my discovery immediately drained away. My hands were still blurry.

"Some things, at least," I added.

"You're accepting the truth, Deagol," he explained. "You've accepted you're no longer part of the old world, but you still have yet to accept what has become of you."

"You mean...I can't see myself...because I don't want to?"

"Yes."

I frowned and lowered my hands, giving the room a final look around. I was standing at the foot of my bed, gazing down at the empty sheets. The smooth, untouched pillow.

That was when I spotted the other bed.

Or rather, the small figure inside it.

He was curled in a ball, covering his face with his tiny hands. His legs were folded tightly against his chest.

It was Beragol.

"Deagol..." he whimpered, shuddering with each breath. "Please come back... Come back, Deagol."

He sobbed and curled himself tighter, trembling harder. I watched him sadly, unmoving.

What are you doing? I asked myself, Don't just stand there; go to him. He needs you. Go to him!

But I didn't move. I couldn't. What good could it do if I tried to help? He couldn't see me. I couldn't tell him I was alright and not to worry; he couldn't hear me. Still, I continued to scold myself.

A pit was rising in my stomach. I wanted to take a step forward, to go over to my brother, but wouldn't. My legs refused to move, as though they had attached themselves to the floor.

Tears stung at my eyes. What was wrong with me? I loved Beragol more than anything. He was the first person I saw every morning. I remembered how I would get up every morning and sit at the foot of his bed, watching him sleep, so peaceful. I remembered how he would wake up early some mornings and jump on me in my bed, waking me, wanting to play. I was always too tired, and would tell him to go back to bed. He never got angry; he just giggled and sat on my bed, waiting for me to get up.

I had always tried to be a good brother for him, but was never convinced that I was doing a good job. There was always a voice in the back of my head saying I wasn't good enough. It told me I wasn't careful enough with him, not watchful enough. I wasn't helpful enough when he needed me to be. I wasn't patient enough, wasn't firm enough. There was always something I wasn't enough of—

"Beragol?"

I spun around.

The figure stood in the doorway, partially hidden in darkness. He seemed about my age, but moderately shorter with a slight stoop in his back. Through the shadows, his eyes shown dark blue, reflecting the moonlight.

He swayed slightly, grabbing the doorframe for support, and his hand came into view. For the split second that I saw it, I spotted a gleam of gold between his fingers.

"...What is he doing here?" I asked. There was a hint of nervousness in my tone.

"Your mother needs the help around the house," the Captain explained. "He agreed to stay for a few days."

I just stared, then nodded with false understanding. "Of course. Who better to help her than the one who killed her son?" My voice rose slightly. "What has he told her?"

"Nothing; at least not the truth."

I felt my jaw clench, and I swallowed back a response.

From across the room, Beragol lifted his head and squinted through the darkness with swollen eyes.

"I can't sleep," he whimpered softly, hiding his face once more.

Smeagol remained where he stood for a moment, gazing through me at Beragol. Then he dropped the bright trinket into his pocket and shakily made his way across the floor. His feet dragged, and he stepped forward blindly. His eyes were sunken, and he was noticeably thinner. He looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept or eaten in days.

Carefully, he knelt down beside Beragol's bed, watching him.

"What is it?" he asked softly. He seemed hesitant, unsure if he should ask. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Beragol just shook his head and curled tighter into a ball.

For a moment, Smeagol was silent. Then slowly he reached out to lay a hand over Beragol's shoulder.

"It's your brother, isn't it?"

Beragol nodded, allowing another sob to escape. Smeagol looked down at him with weary eyes, and slowly ran his hand over my brother's back.

And then Beragol let out a final, heart-wrenching cry and dove at Smeagol, burying a tear-streaked face into his chest.

Smeagol reacted as though he'd been hit. He jumped back, startled, but Beragol's small hands held tight. His eyes grew huge, and I could see the panic that filled them, allowing me to forget what he was for a glorious moment. Seconds passed, and he finally brought his trembling arms up to wrap them around his charge.

"Shhhhhh... There, there," he whispered soothingly. "It's alright, Beragol."

"I just miss him so much," Beragol wept. "What's going to happen to him? Where will he go?"

Smeagol's face showed no emotion. He was simply staring ahead at the wall, like he wasn't even listening. He hesitated again, and looked down at my brother.

"He'll go...where we all go. Somewhere better."

His voice wavered slightly as he said it, and seeing the sadness in his heavy eyes, I knew he refused to believe his words.

Beragol raised his head to meet Smeagol's eye. "Where is that?"

Smeagol looked down. "I don't know," he said, his voice still quivering. "But he's happy now, Beragol. You have to understand that. There's no need to be sad."

He pulled my brother closer, embracing him.

"He wouldn't want you to be."

Beragol closed his eyes, snuggling closer to his older cousin. "Do you miss Deagol too, Smeagol?"

There was another pause, and Smeagol closed his eyes, resting his chin on Beragol's head. He remained still, holding the little hobbit close, until he had finally gathered his voice.

"Yes."

He met Beragol's eyes again. "Get some sleep, now."

He laid the boy back against his pillow, keeping a reassuring hand on his shoulder. A feint smile flickered across Smeagol's face, and he pulled my mother's old patch-work quilt up over Beragol. My brother snuggled into the cover, welcoming it. Smeagol stroked his hair, then leaned closer to whisper into his ear.

"Rest now... Close your eyes. That's it. Rest..." His smile grew warmer, and there was a softness in his eyes that pushed aside his exhaustion.

"Rest now, little one."

----------

Smeagol remained by Beragol's bedside, comforting him, until he finally drifted off to sleep. I remained where I stood the whole time, watching him silently. Wondering.

He was about to get up, a peaceful look on his face, when his foot brushed against a dark object on the floor. He looked down in puzzlement, and blindly felt for it.

I squinted through the darkness, trying to see. Even I had missed it, despite being so close to it. Smeagol wrapped his long fingers around it, pulling it out from the bed's shadow and into the moonlight.

The peacefulness disappeared instantly, replaced by dread, the moment he saw it.

It was Beragol's teddy bear. The very same one I had put in my baby brother's crib seven years ago.

At first, Smeagol did nothing; simply sat and stared at my old stuffed animal, frozen. Then slowly, he stood, took two steps, and sat down heavily at the foot of the bed. Not once did he take his eyes off the bear.

He continued to sit with it, gazing down at it in silence, until he could contain himself no more. He inhaled sharply and wrapped his arms around the soft toy, hugging it to his chest. He lowered his head and shivered, clutching the bear even tighter.

Minutes passed, and he finally stood again. With trembling hands, he pulled back Beragol's covers, laid the teddy bear beside him, and placed the covers over both of them. He watched Beragol for a moment, in debate of whether or not he should sit down again.

But then Smeagol's face twisted into a look of pain, and he left the room quickly.

I watched him disappear into the hallway. I considered following him for a second, but turned back to Beragol instead.

He stirred in his sleep at the sound of Smeagol's departure, and groaned softly. I bent down and nudged his bear—my bear—against him, smiling as he pulled it closer, snuggling deeper into the quilt.

I stood up and took a step back, gazing at him one last time.

And then a bright light filled the room.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Well, what did you think? Sorry it took me so long to update; this was a hard chapter to write. I promise the next one will be up much quicker. But I REALLY need some more reviews. Tell me what you think of my story. Cya!)


	6. Bitter Farewell

What Dreams May Come  
  
I squinted in the afternoon sun, waiting for my eyes to adjust.  
I could feel the cool grass beneath my feet, its longer blades  
rising up to my waist, and could see the waters gleaming in the  
light ahead of me.  
  
The lake.  
  
"How much longer, Captain?" I asked, exhaling heavily. The realization  
of my death had fully set in, leaving me unable to cope with my  
surroundings. I was dead, and yet I continued to feel and think, to  
breath, to walk over grass and across floors as though I were still  
alive. It did nothing but fill me with doubt.  
  
"How long will this last?" I asked again.  
  
"As long as you want it to."  
  
I gazed out over the waters, feeling nothing as I conjured up memories  
of fishing; memories of laughing, joking, relaxing in the warm sun.  
They were fading memories.  
  
"...But what am I doing here?" I asked, suddenly puzzled by the site.  
"Why am I here?"  
  
"That is for you to decide. You brought yourself here, Deagol, not I."  
  
I turned to face the trees, straining my eyes to see into the shadows  
of their ancient bows. I stared down at the tall grass, running my  
hands over the blades.  
  
"But how? I made no request. I wasn't even thinking about this place."  
  
"Your actions are not based primarily on worded thoughts, Deagol," the  
Captain explained wearily, as though he was reluctant to tell me.  
"They can be triggered by other factors; feelings, emotions; dreams  
even. There is something about this place, some emotion that draws you  
to it."  
  
Slowly, I began to walk, unaware of where I was going, only knowing in  
the back of my mind I was going the right way. It made me think of the  
geese I would see on the bank across from me; how the silly birds,  
speckled brown and grey, would take off in their neat formations,  
always heading south, always knowing where they were headed...  
  
"Draws me to it..." I murmured to myself, trying to remember. My  
thoughts were a jumble. Memories were disappearing; replaced by older  
images, long forgotten. "Draws me to it..."  
  
My eyes grew wide. An image rose in my mind, forcing aside all the  
confusing thoughts. I saw me, a younger me, sitting on the bank. The  
grass rose up beside me to the right, but the left side was empty, the  
taller grass pulled out to make a comfortable space among the weeds; a  
clearing by the—  
  
"The clearing!" I took off running. "It's the clearing!"  
  
Stumbling across the bank, pushing aside the foliage, running faster,  
faster! Pulled to the clearing. Had to get to the clearing!  
  
The tall grass fell away, replaced by soft green blades beneath me. A  
wave of relief fell over me as I leapt into the open patch...  
  
And I froze.  
  
He was on his knees, hunched over as he leaned against an old oak tree  
for support. His hand was raised, and he was holding something up to  
his face. His skin was pale, almost white. His hair was matted and  
dirty, hanging in his blood-shot eyes as they flickered anxiously.  
Almost bird-like he looked, turning and cocking his head as he studied  
his prize. His shoulders were trembling, and his breath was labored,  
wheezing in and out shallowly.  
  
I looked at him sidelong, hesitating. On seeing him, I wanted to step  
back, to turn and leave, but my feet continued to refuse my will.  
There was another part of me, though. A part that wanted to step  
forward. It wanted to go up to him and kneel down beside him, talk to  
him like I always had and pretend that life would go on as it always  
had. But I made no movement.  
  
I parted my lips cautiously, and raised my head to look at him fully.  
  
"...Smeagol?"  
  
He made no response, nor did he show any indication that he'd heard  
me. I'd known he wouldn't, being as it was that he couldn't, but I'd  
called his name anyway. Perhaps I'd wanted to reassure myself, to  
convince myself that the figure slumped in front of me really was my  
cousin and not some crazed being.  
  
Smeagol lifted his hand higher and held the ring between his thumb and  
forefinger. His hands trembled now, and his eyes grew huge. He forced  
himself to close them and slowly began to lower his hand.  
  
At first, his hand simply bobbed up and down, like he was unsure of  
his next move. He gazed at it painfully, and finally slammed his hand  
down on the ground in front of him.  
  
For a moment, he didn't move. He simply sat in his hunched position,  
hand still calmly outstretched, as though he were waiting for  
something to happen. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his hand  
away, leaving the ring on the ground before him.  
  
He looked exhausted, as though the act had taken great effort.  
Gradually, he began to crawl backwards, away from the shining object.  
His fingers were a third of a meter away from it, quivering, still  
reaching out. A feint light of pathetic joy appeared in his eyes as he  
continued to back away.  
  
I began to look away again. "What...what is happening, Captain?"  
  
There was no reply.  
  
"Captain?" I said louder, looking around. Again there was silence.  
  
Smeagol stopped. He paused, and the look of joy faded. His hand began  
trembling, and the strained wheezing sounds escaping from his throat  
grew louder. He was hesitant as he took another step back.  
  
And almost instantly, his face twisted into a sickened, painful  
cringe, and his eyes shimmered brightly in the sun as they flooded  
with tears, tears that immediately spilled over his face. His lips  
drew tight and quivered, and a long, strangled wail welled in his  
throat, growing louder and louder until it finally burst through those  
trembling lips and erupted into a horrible cry that pulled even my  
stubborn legs a step closer.  
  
Smeagol dropped his head, his wail sinking to a ragged, gasping end,  
and collapsed into a miserable heap. He rested his head in his lap,  
cradling it gently in his hands as he sobbed and coughed pitifully,  
each breath like a knife plunging into my already broken heart.  
  
Without a thought, my hand raised, bringing itself closer to the  
figure before me, fingers twitching with caution as it edged towards  
his shoulder...  
  
And stopped.  
  
What is wrong with you?  
  
I forced myself to ignore the scolding in my head. It was becoming  
hard to see Smeagol; my eyes were blurry with tears. My jaw began to  
tremble lightly, as did my legs, and my ears buzzed painfully. But  
still my hand remained hovering over his shoulder.  
  
He is your friend! the scolding voice shouted, Your cousin! Not a  
monster! Do not ignore his cries as well!  
  
"I hate you," he whispered, letting another cry escape. "I hate you...I  
hate you..."  
  
For one awful moment, I had thought the statement had been meant for  
me, and an injured expression filled my eyes. I began to move my hand  
back.  
  
"Smeeeeeagol..."  
  
He purred his name eerily, suddenly recovered from his agony. I felt  
myself go rigid at the sound of the voice. It was thin, almost hollow-  
sounding, as though he were growling as he spoke. And it sounded  
familiar...so familiar...  
  
Another shudder, followed by a sob, and then he went still again.  
  
"Why does it cry, Smeeeeeagol?" he purred again, taunting. "Is it  
lonely? Does poor Smeagol weep to be so, so alone?"  
  
He shrunk further into a ball, trembling once more.  
  
"Go away!" he wept in his own voice. "This is all your fault!"  
  
"All my fault?" the thin voice echoed, sounding amused. "We wasn't the  
one who saw our only, our lovely in his hand. We wasn't the one who  
killed its precious Deagol. Gollum! Gollum!"  
  
A sharp spasm went up his back and he coughed loudly. I pulled my hand  
back.  
  
"Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" he wept.  
  
"So ungrateful it is, love. What will it do without us now?"  
  
"Leave us alone..."  
  
"Where will it go, my Precious? Back home? No; nasty hobbitses hurt  
it, they did. Still hurts, Precious? Yessss... Hobbitses threw Smeagol  
out, they did. Drove it out, yes! Now it is lost! It can never go  
home, Precious!"  
  
He whimpered once, then continued his taunting.  
  
"No home. No friends. You has nothing to go back to now!"  
  
"GO AWAY!" he shrieked, lashing out violently at an unseen foe. I  
leapt back, startled.  
  
"Almost nothing," the purring voice continued. "There is still one  
thing, Smeagol. What is the one thing we has left?"  
  
He gasped suddenly, widening his eyes, and froze, not even breathing.  
  
For the longest moment, he remained like this, then slowly he lowered his eyes.  
  
"My..." he whispered, and paused. Then he cried out, "...PRECIOUS!"  
  
Before I could even react, he sprang forward, scrambling madly towards  
the ring, which sat at the base of the tree just where he'd left it.  
He snatched it up in his pale fingers and fell once more.  
  
He was laughing.  
  
Nervously, almost crying still, but laughing none-the-less.  
  
"Precious! Oh, my Precious! So sorry, we is, yes, yessss! My  
only, oh my lovely, our Precious! Our Precious!"  
  
I didn't say a word. I simply stepped away, walking past him,  
and gazed out over the lake. The memories were gone. I looked at  
those waters, sparkling with blue and green...and could not see  
the peace and happiness that always drew me to this bank.  
  
I turned back to Smeagol, who still lay by the tree, laughing and  
crooning to his ring. This was not my cousin. Not anymore.  
  
This was a monster.  
  
I closed my eyes and lowered my head.  
  
"Alright, Captain," I said quietly. "Let me go now."  
  
I felt the warmth of the sun fade away, and opened my eyes to see the  
white light surround me one last time. 


	7. A Slow Transition

I own nothing. Smeagol and Deagol belong to Tolkein, and I guess a little to Peter Jackson too. I'd like to say a special thanks to Joanne-saki for her review. I wouldn't keep updating this story as frequently as I do if I didn't know people were reading it. Thanks.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
What Dreams May Come  
  
When I came to, I was on my back. The sky about me was unmoving, dim gold with swirls of dark purple and orange. The sun shown dully off to the left.  
  
I dug my nails into the soil half-heartedly. I winced slightly and yanked at the earth, pulling out a handful of straw-grass and holding it up curiously.  
  
Gathering my strength, I cringed and sat up stiffly. The field was huge; it  
stretched on for what must have been miles. A small hill rose up  
behind me. I was alone.  
  
I was also growing frustrated. "Captain?" I asked.  
  
No answer.  
  
I looked around once more for him, then closed my eyes gloomily. I  
didn't want to go anywhere. I was through with life. Through with the  
memories.  
  
I hung my head and sighed, then reluctantly stood up. After a moment,  
I turned and made my way to the hill.  
  
Starting up the slope, I began to wonder where I was. This field was  
alien to me; there was nothing here I recognized. Nothing that would  
draw my attention, at any rate.  
  
I was nearing the top. There was an unusual smell in the air; a salty,  
moist smell, terribly out of place in this deserted landscape.  
  
On reaching the top, however, I found my puzzlement put to a final  
rest.  
  
There was a river. The tan grass continued on down, then suddenly  
stopped and was replaced with lush green weeds. The two were divided  
by a clean, straight line that ran along the base of the hill, as  
though someone had gone and marked a boundary for them.  
  
The river itself was another story. Brilliant blue water, running over  
glimmering rocks, splashing up bright spray that glittered in the  
dimming light. Great reed beds danced below the waters by the shore,  
their rich green color showing through to the surface, tinted blue.  
  
"It's an amazing view, isn't it?" a voice shouted. "I don't suppose  
it's changed so much since I left it, though."  
  
I jumped slightly at the sound, and only then did I notice the lone  
figure standing on the bank.  
  
He was an older hobbit, about fifty-five in age with a weathered face  
and sand-colored hair just beginning to grey. His clothes were worn  
and loose-fitting. He'd spent a lot of time outdoors, particularly by  
the water, judging by the binds of cloth wrapped tightly around the  
cuffs of his jacket and pants.  
  
He looked up at me cheerfully, as though he was showing off this small  
sanctuary and awaiting my response.  
  
I made none. I had been struck speechless the moment I saw his face,  
with his square jaw and wide nose and brown eyes, thoughtful deep  
brown eyes that had immediately fixed on mine.  
  
The hobbit shook his head amused and chuckled. "Come now, Deagol.  
Don't act so surprised. Who else would you call 'Captain?'"  
  
"...I didn't want to believe it at first," I managed to say.  
  
"The Captain." He smiled proudly as he said the name. "One of your  
most clever nicknames for me."  
  
"All those boats," I said, partially to myself. "You were always off  
somewhere in a boat. You loved them."  
  
"Yes," he replied. "It's a shame that that little interest always  
seems to skip a generation. Your grandfather thought I was crazy the  
same way you did."  
  
I gazed at him long and hard. "...Father?" I asked in the same tone one  
might use when trying to say a newly-learned word.  
  
He chuckled again. "The Captain himself, at your service!"  
  
A huge smile, no doubt a foolish-looking one, suddenly split my face,  
and I looked back at the river with amazement.  
  
The smile faded, changing to a look of bewilderment.  
  
"But...but that would mean..." I stammered, "that would mean..."  
  
My father nodded, gazing up at me solemnly.  
  
"You have now entered into the next world, Deagol."  
  
"The next world?" I echoed flatly.  
  
"The Afterlife, Deagol," he said. "The Afterlife."  
  
* * *  
  
"Easy there, boy," he chuckled, holding up his hands in a reassuring  
gesture. "Just try to concentrate. Pretend it's the ground."  
  
"Awfully wet ground," I uttered, staggering over the running water. I  
stumbled, and immediately slid to the left, like someone had just  
pulled a rug out from under me.  
  
My father reached out to steady me, then carefully led me to a small  
island of rocks.  
  
"Stand here for a moment," he ordered patiently. I climbed up onto the  
rocks, letting out a private sigh of relief.  
  
"Now how do the rocks feel?" he asked.  
  
"Wet," I said simply, stepping back as a wave slammed against the  
stone beside me and sent up a spray of white foam.  
  
"Yes. Cold too, aren't they?"  
  
"Yes." I thought for a moment. "...Like the water."  
  
He gave me a sideways look. "You seem to be doing pretty well walking  
on them."  
  
I nodded absent-mindedly. "The waves are less severe."  
  
"Deagol, there's always going to be waves," he explained. "They do not  
stop when you ask them to. You have to concentrate on your own; just  
pretend you are on the rocks, and the waves are simply splashing."  
  
I looked back at him curiously.  
  
"On the rocks," I murmured, then nodded as I lowered myself from my  
perch. Surprisingly, I did not fall, nor did I stumble. I stood  
perfectly still, gazing down in astonishment as the waters ran under  
me.  
  
My father smiled, pleased.  
  
"Come," he said, gesturing towards the opposite shore. "We're almost  
there."  
  
He continued on ahead, looking back at me over his shoulder. I  
followed after a second of hesitation.  
  
"Almost where?" I asked, running to catch up. "Where are you taking  
me?"  
  
He came to a stop suddenly, as did I on catching up. We were both  
silent, staring fixedly up at the small structure ahead of us.  
  
I walked past him, never looking away.  
  
"...It's our house," I breathed.  
  
"Yes." The Captain sounded solemn again. "...I was...uncomfortable when I  
first came here. I was in a whole new environment; frightened, I'll  
admit."  
  
"So you made our home," I finished.  
  
My father nodded. "As well as the river. I would always take my boat  
out to the river. It was calm, for the most part. I went out to get  
away from the others for a while; to be where no one could find me."  
  
He turned to look back at the river. "I found this portion by  
accident. There was a strong current that day. Dragged me all the way  
down to the rapids. The boat was damaged; smashed against those  
rocks.I'd broken my leg. Had to limp all the way home."  
  
I smiled, despite myself. "And then you went out and got another  
boat."  
  
He nodded, his look becoming internal. "I'm starting to wish I  
hadn't."  
  
I lowered my eyes away from the house, then turned to meet eyes with  
him.  
  
"Four months," he said. "Four months and I would have been a father. I  
took risks I shouldn't have. And they cost me."  
  
"It wasn't your fault," I said, not knowing what else to tell my  
father.  
  
He looked down at the ground, then shook his head and went up to the  
house.  
  
"Let's go inside," he said in an easy tone. He walked past me. "You've  
had a long day. You must be starving."  
  
* * *  
  
"Eat this."  
  
I looked down at the slice of bread in his hand in the same manner I  
might look at a coiled snake. I wasn't dreadfully hungry at the  
moment, and I was tired. I wanted only to be left in peace so I could  
make sense of the events I had seen unfold in the last few hours.  
  
We were in the kitchen—our kitchen—, seated at the table and enjoying  
a moment of peace between ourselves. Outside, the still-setting sun  
shown through the window beside me, casting a dull gold light over the  
room.  
  
I continued to stare at the bread, as though expecting it to do  
something, then looked up at my father.  
  
He nudged the piece of food closer. "Eat it," he said again.  
  
Reluctantly, I reached out and took the slice from his hand, but  
instead of eating it, I simply stared down at it.  
  
There was a long silence between both of us, then finally my father  
spoke up.  
  
"Aren't you hungry?"  
  
"I haven't eaten since breakfast," I said, turning the bread in my  
hands. "I should be starving."  
  
I hesitated for a second, studying the bread once more. Then for no  
reason at all, I brought it to my mouth and took a huge bite.  
  
Almost instantly, the taste in my mouth became charred and bitter,  
like I had just taken in a mouthful of ashes.  
  
On spitting it out, I discovered that this was just the case.  
  
For a moment, neither of us said anything. We both remained where we  
sat, gazing down at the pile of ashes on the table in front of me.  
  
I looked up suddenly. "...What does that mean?" I asked cautiously.  
  
My father shook his head. "You're still not focusing. You have to  
concentrate, Deagol. You have to imagine that this is all real."  
  
"Imagine?" I said, puzzled. "But this is real. This whole place is  
real. Isn't it?"  
  
"Not necessarily," he explained. "This is only a version of our house.  
The real one is on Middle Earth, as well as the real river. You are of  
an entirely different world now, Deagol."  
  
He looked across the room. "This house is little more than a memory; a  
figment of the imagination." He met my eyes. "...But so are you, now  
that you are no longer considered a living being."  
  
I looked back down at the remaining half of the bread. I cocked my  
head thoughtfully, looking at it sideways, then turned my attention to  
a crack in the opposite wall.  
  
Memories...  
  
Slowly, I began to crumple the bread in my hand, imagining it was soft  
and moist, molding together in my tightening grip...  
  
I closed my fist and paused, concentrating. How did bread feel?  
  
Soft and moist, I repeated over to myself. Soft and moist.  
  
"Let it go, now," my father ordered.  
  
I hesitated once more, then closing my eyes, I opened my hand. There  
was another pause.  
  
"Open your eyes, Deagol."  
  
Just as hesitant as before, I opened them, and froze as I looked down  
at the table.  
  
There, beside the tiny pile of ash, sat a ball of bread, crumpled  
almost into doe.  
  
I looked up at my father anxiously.  
  
He smiled, then raised his eyes from the table with a pleased look in  
his eye. He reached into the cabinet beside him and pulled out another  
piece.  
  
"Here."  
  
It was the best slice of bread I'd ever eaten. 


	8. Memory and Time

What Dreams May Come  
  
I looked up at the sky, an odd look of realization appearing on my face.  
  
My father saw this. "What is it?"  
  
"The sun," I said. "It hasn't moved at all since I came here."  
  
I turned my gaze to him. "We've been in the house for hours."  
  
"Yes," he said nonchalantly. "Several hours."  
  
We were walking. The excitement of my steadying adjustment had run  
high for the past three hours as I'd gone around the house "testing"  
things, as one might say. Opening doors, sitting in chairs, lifting  
mats from the floor to blow away the dust, simple things. The third  
hour had ended with me looking through the cabinet and taking out a  
dish. With my grace, or rather, the grace I was unfortunate in never  
having gained, I had fumbled and dropped the dish on the stone floor.  
Both of us were quite astonished—and bewildered, for my part—when it  
hadn't shattered, nor even cracked on contact.  
  
It was then that my father had decided to go for a walk.  
  
"...But why hasn't the sun moved?" I asked, thinking on his words for a  
moment. "...Doesn't time exist anymore either?"  
  
"Oh, no," he said quickly. "It still exists. Time exists no matter  
where you are. But it can pass at a different rate."  
  
"The days are longer up here."  
  
"Yes. About the length of three days, I suppose. But they're much  
longer if you compare them to the time that passes on Middle Earth."  
  
"And how long is that?" I asked, stopping.  
  
"Seven years, approximately," he said indifferently. He turned towards  
me, watching me, as though he were waiting for my reaction.  
  
For a moment, he got none.  
  
"Seven?" I asked him.  
  
He nodded. "Seven."  
  
I looked down thoughtfully, then suddenly raised my head.  
  
"But...no no, that can't be right." I shook my head and looked away.  
  
"What?" he pressed.  
  
I hesitated, still thinking. "...Well, Beragol is seven years old. You  
died right before he was born..." I shook my head again. "But...but that  
would have to mean that you..."  
  
My father grinned. "Yes, it's true, Deagol." He turned and looked up  
at the sky. "I have only been here for a day, not counting the time  
I've spent with you today. And Beragol's eight now, by the way," he  
added.  
  
I just stared.  
  
He chuckled. "I told you: time passes at a slower rate up here. The  
entire life of a hobbit can go by just like that!" He snapped his  
fingers for emphasis. "One hundred years, gone in two weeks!"  
  
We continued walking.  
  
"That's incredible," I said, not sure of what else I could have used in its place.  
  
"Yes it is. It's also incredible what changes can occur in time when  
you're up here."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Here."  
  
He pulled up his right sleeve, showing a pink-ish colored scar on his forearm.  
  
"Do you recognize that?"  
  
I squinted at the mark, then nodded. "You got that when I was ten. You  
said you tore it on a fishing hook."  
  
"I did," he said, rolling his sleeve back down. "It was pretty nasty-  
looking. Bled something fierce. They said I was going to have that  
scar for the rest of my life. They were right about that much, but  
they never mentioned what would happen after. One day, and it's  
already beginning to clear up."  
  
I forced a small smile, then pulled my shirt collar down slightly,  
exposing my neck. "What about these?"  
  
My father studied the bruises. "Those'll take a while if they're  
recent, which they are. Probably six months."  
  
He stepped back, and I pulled my collar back into place.  
  
We talked for a while, telling stories, laughing at jokes, enjoying a  
long walk like we always would to block out the stress in our lives.  
After what had only felt like a few minutes turned out to be hours, as  
I had discovered from looking up in surprise to see the sun in a new  
position in the sky.  
  
Occasionally, we would spot a tree or a rock in the distance. We had  
even come across the great Anduin falls themselves and sat by the  
river, admiring the scene with tranquil delight. Aside from this,  
though, there was nothing to see but fields.  
  
Eventually, we had grown tired and headed back to the house, satisfied  
with the excitement we had each seen for the day. I remembered the  
feeling of relaxation that had filled me on seeing the low roof  
looming up over the horizon. I was almost home.  
  
That was when I'd spotted it.  
  
The first thing to catch my eye was the color; a dull grey-white that  
stood out distinctly from the dark tan ground. I would come to wonder  
much later how I had missed seeing it before.  
  
This was enough to make me stop, and I'd squinted at it curiously. I  
recognized the shape, and a feeling of shock and disbelief overcame me  
as I realized what it was.  
  
I began to run towards it.  
  
"Deagol? Deagol!"  
  
I felt my father's hands clamp down on my shoulders and jerk me back.  
  
"What is it?" he asked.  
  
"It's the boat." I said, squirming out of his grasp. I started to run  
forward again, but stopped myself. "It's the boat we were in!"  
  
"The one you were fishing in?"  
  
"Yes. The one I fell out of."  
  
I looked back at him anxiously. "What's it doing here?"  
  
"I should be asking you," he said. "You brought it here."  
  
"I did?" I asked him in disbelief.  
  
"Yes. Just as I brought our house and the river. You brought a boat."  
  
"Just a boat?" I sounded skeptical. "Nothing else? I don't even like  
boats, Father. You're the Captain, not me."  
  
"Liking it," he said, "has nothing to do with the matter. It's here  
because you feel strongly about it, whatever the feeling may be." He  
looked thoughtful. "It's like your own addition to a larger picture."  
  
"But it's just sitting there," I said, pondering the subject. "There's  
no water, no river bank, no forest. The picture's all wrong."  
  
"Do you think you can fix it?"  
  
I blinked. "What?"  
  
"Fix the picture," he explained. "You can finish 'painting' it. Add  
water, possibly some trees."  
  
"...And how do I do that?"  
  
"Just concentrate," he said. "Think about the scene. Try to picture  
yourself there."  
  
I nodded and closed my eyes, forcing myself to conjure up the memories  
I had banished from my mind only hours ago. Memories of fishing, of  
sitting in the clearing, talking, waiting for a bite, a bite that  
would never come, but still enjoying the calming swirls of blue and  
green stretched out before me.  
  
Memories of him.  
  
What did he always say? Fishing never grew old. He always said we  
would still be waiting for that bite, even in our old age.  
  
I would always laugh or just smile, and continue to gaze at those  
waters, those beautiful, sparkling waters... Those gleaming, shining  
waters...  
  
Shining so bright...shining so, so beautiful.  
  
Like our ring. OUR ring; the ring we—the ring I found. It shown so  
brilliantly in the sun, so stunning, so dazzling...the ring he stole  
from us...  
  
Curse him.  
  
"Deagol?"  
  
He stole it from us. It was ours, it was. It came to us! Our only, our  
lovely, our—  
  
"Son?"  
  
My eyes snapped open suddenly. My father had sounded concerned.  
  
"What is it?" I asked, confused for a moment.  
  
"Are you alright? You look angry."  
  
"I'm not angry."  
  
"But you were getting ready to—"  
  
"I'm not angry!"  
  
He jumped slightly at my fiery response, and looked dejected. But then  
his face grew curious, almost suspicious, and he looked back at the  
house.  
  
"Maybe we're rushing into all this," he said. "You've learned a good  
deal already. It's late. We should go home."  
  
With that, he turned and walked away.  
  
After giving the small, lonely-looking boat a final glance, I  
followed, feeling quite empty and dissatisfied with myself at that  
moment. 


	9. Fixing the Picture

Disclaimer: Deagol, Smeagol, the movie... not mine.  
  
What Dreams May Come  
  
The crack was small.  
  
Squinting up through the darkness, I could barely see it against the ceiling. But it was there. Such a simple detail, hardly worth notice, and yet my father had recreated it perfectly. Thoughts of the crack in the kitchen wall came to me; there were cracks everywhere. I remembered our house was always in need of repair. There would always be a shingle that needed replaced, a floorboard that needed nailed back in place. The house was literally falling apart, and I could occasionally hear the sound of the walls chipping away beneath their own weight.  
  
Every crack I'd seen on our walls was here now. Every loose and creaking floorboard. Outside, every withering and rusted shingle was in its exact position. My father had not missed a single detail.  
  
I rolled over on my side, pulling the covers up higher over my shoulders.  
  
My room looked just the way I remembered it. The walls were pebbly and rough, the wood never having been sanded. The floor beneath me was covered with stacks of papers. Across the room, the small round window sparkled with stars.  
  
Beragol's bed was not in the room; my father had not lived to see it there.  
  
From my position across the room, I gazed at the scene thoughtfully. Seeing it brought back more old memories of peace and relaxation; simple memories.  
  
Beragol would always wake me in the middle of the night when he was younger, sometimes talking across the room from beneath his covers, other times coming up to stand by my bed, looking down at me with the round, sad- looking eyes of a four-year-old.  
  
I would always lift my head and squint at him through a haze of half- slumber, then ask what he wanted. He would say he couldn't sleep, or that he'd had a bad dream. He always seemed to be having bad dreams.  
  
"It was just a dream, Beragol," I always said. "And you know dreams—"  
  
"Aren't real?" he would finish.  
  
I nodded, satisfied that he understood, but still stayed up with him for a little while. I would sit with him on the floor by my bed with an arm around him, allowing him to snuggle closer. He would always bring his old hand-me-down teddy bear with him. Booka, I think he called it. I would often find myself wondering what I used to call it when I was his age.  
  
Back in the empty room, I smiled to myself, remembering those moments like they had only happened days ago. I paused, gazing across the room, then decided I was never going to get any sleep and climbed out of bed. I made my way across the room, stumbling slightly over my papers, and came to a stop beside the empty wall.  
  
I stared at that wall for ten minutes, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. Eventually, I had come around, snapped out of my trance, and frowned at the empty space. I looked over my shoulder, into the corner.  
  
On top of a pile of maps, there sat a rough-looking drawing of a bullfrog.  
  
My eyes strayed to the doorway. It was dark, almost completely hidden in shadows.  
  
Hidden in shadows.  
  
I didn't dare move. My gaze was locked onto that spot, and I began to feel the all-too-familiar buzzing behind my ears. Someone was there.  
  
On pure impulse, I sprang forward, eyes flaring with threat. I was almost certain, though possibly hallucinating, that there was a jump in response from the hallway. Again, I went forward, leaning out the door.  
  
But there was no one.  
  
Furrowing my brow, I stepped out of my room. I stood silently for a moment longer, then walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. I gave the room a wary glance, hesitating, going rigid. The hairs on my neck stood on end. My hands were clenched into fists.  
  
I went over to the cabinet, opening it to retrieve a dish—the same one I had dropped late that afternoon.  
  
The creak of a floorboard; my eyes darted to the left. Nothing there. Nobody watching. Back to the dish.  
  
"I just miss him so much. What's going to happen to him? Where will he go?"  
  
The words played out in my head as clearly as though they'd been spoken.  
  
"He'll go...where we all go. Somewhere better."  
  
"Where is that?"  
  
"I don't know. But he's happy now, Beragol. You have to understand that. There's no need to be sad."  
  
I turned the dish in my hands, running a finger along its smooth surface.  
  
"He wouldn't want you to be."  
  
I cocked my head slightly, studying the dish with a sideways look. It was almost perfectly round. It felt hard, like a real one.  
  
"Do you miss Deagol too, Smeagol?"  
  
"...Yes."  
  
Half-expecting someone to be there, my eyes glanced back down the hallway before returning to the dish.  
  
There was a crack on the edge.  
  
I felt it carefully, tried to insert my fingernail into the gap. I couldn't.  
  
The crack was definitely big enough, but I couldn't bring myself to touch it. My finger would always inch away as it neared the edge of the dish.  
  
Yes, he'd said.  
  
The word echoed over and over again in my head. Yes. Yes. Yes.  
  
I took the dish in both hands once more.  
  
It was the way he'd said it that made he think. It had sounded so...strong. So final, like he had been dreading the question that had been asked to him, and wanted to change the subject immediately.  
  
And there was something else in his voice. A solemn, almost sad tone that he couldn't quite hide.  
  
And anger. He'd sounded angry as he'd spoken, though at what, I wasn't sure.  
  
Yes.  
  
More voices.  
  
"What is he doing here?"  
  
My voice.  
  
"Your mother needs the help around the house. He agreed to stay for a few days."  
  
"Of course. Who better to help her than the one who killed her son?"  
  
I reached into the crack with my fingernail as far as I could. My hands tightened around the edge of the dish.  
  
I thought of the boat outside. It sat alone in that empty field, not in the lake where it should have been. It was surrounded by old, tan grass, not the dark trees. The picture was wrong, and needed to be made right again.  
  
"What has he told her?"  
  
"Nothing. At least not the truth."  
  
My blood ran cold.  
  
Nothing...At least not the truth.  
  
"Go away! This is all your fault!"  
  
"All my fault?"  
  
A chill went up my spine at the sound of the voice.  
  
"We wasn't the one who saw our only, our lovely in his hand. We wasn't the one who killed its precious Deagol."  
  
Then he let out a sickening cough that echoed through the room, fading away slowly into the night.  
  
The dish fell from my hands, falling silently towards the floor below me.  
  
And, with a sudden, loud crash, it shattered into pieces.  
  
* * *  
  
Even before dawn had broken, I'd changed back into my old, wrinkled clothes and left the house, setting out into the field. Out to the boat.  
  
The sun was just beginning to rise, a thin band of blinding gold peeking over the horizon, when I'd spotted it in that empty sea of grass. For a second, I had paused, wondering why it had been a boat, and not my old fishing pole or tackle box. If liking something didn't determine what you brought with you, then what did? Perhaps I'd brought the tiny boat with me simply because falling out of it was the first memory of the incident to come to my mind, even before the ring...  
  
I pushed the thought aside and focused on the boat; concentrated on the picture. Had to fix the picture.  
  
But how? What could I think of to help concentrate? The most obvious answer was the water, but the thought of those bright, gleaming waters would always turn my focus to that horrid ring.  
  
Not horrid, a voice would always say, Nice. Is nice ring.  
  
And that would always lead to thoughts of fighting. Fighting HIM for the nice ring. "Him", I called him now. HE was the problem, the reason I couldn't concentrate. It was HIS fault I was in this dilemma. It was HIS fault I was even dead to begin with.  
  
I closed my eyes, tried to focus on something else. Something besides sight. Focus on the feel of the lake. The cool grass, soft and scratchy beneath my feet. The wind, blowing through the trees behind me.  
  
The sounds. The birds calling, bullfrogs croaking, the trees rustling in the wind. The water rippling quietly beyond me, filled with fish swimming lazily beneath the surface.  
  
The musty smell of grass, mixed with the soft, airy scent of the water...  
  
Minutes passed, and I focused every thought, every ounce of strength, on this one image. I clenched my eyes tighter, struggling to hold onto the mental picture I had drawn. My arms, extended forward and stiffened, began trembling. Droplets of sweat began forming on my forehead and palms. My head ached horribly. But I didn't stop. I couldn't. Somewhere in the back of my mind, almost hidden in all the building strain of my present task, the tiny scolding voice continued to fight back.  
  
Don't stop now, it would say. You can't stop now, when you are so close to achieving your goal. Think! Feel!  
  
My heart was pounding. Every beat echoed through me, sending a sharp tremor up my spine and out through my arms. My legs shook forcefully. My head hummed agonizingly.  
  
Don't stop now!  
  
A flash of light! The blinding glare of the sun reflecting off the waters, showing as bright as though I were looking upon it with open eyes. It flashed again, just as suddenly; shown just as brightly. Then, just as my eyes were beginning to adjust to the blinding image, it flashed once more, even more powerful than both times before.  
  
My legs gave way like twigs, and I collapsed, falling to my knees in the grass. My head rested on the ground before me, waiting for the dizzy feeling to pass.  
  
I clenched my fingers in the grass absent-mindedly, trying to focus on the mental image once more. Couldn't stop now! Couldn't—  
  
The grass. I clenched my fingers again.  
  
It felt different, not at all like the dead, dry blades I had already come accustomed to feeling. It felt...soft.  
  
I opened my eyes.  
  
The sight of green-blue weeds filled my gaze. I sat up, shocked, and ran my fingers over the blades. I was utterly speechless.  
  
Slowly, I pulled out a handful of the green vegetation, bringing it close to my face as I stood. It smelled like grass, dusty and moist. It crumpled as I closed my fist; didn't crack or crumble like the dry grass. My eyes strayed up, away from my hand to the scene beyond...  
  
I could feel my heart skip a beat.  
  
The water was gleaming. Swirling and rippling silently, reflecting the soft glow of the risen sun, now peeking up over the thick surrounding of trees.  
  
And in the center of the lake, bobbing lightly, almost happily, was the boat.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
(Again, a difficult chapter to write. I liked the concept, but was having trouble writing it out. The next chapter will be much shorter, and will be up much sooner, but again: I NEED more reviews! Constructive criticism is welcome, as well as comments and questions. Please give me your opinion.) 


	10. A Memory Yet to Come

Disclaimer: I think you pretty much know what I'm going to say here. Not mine. Period. End.  
  
What Dreams May Come  
  
"Amazing, isn't it?" my father asked. I turned to meet his eye in  
surprise as he emerged from the trees, the look on his face showing  
his awe.  
  
"It's incredible," I said, gazing back at the tiny boat. "...I can't believe I actually did it."  
  
"Nothing's impossible," he said. "Just difficult."  
  
He walked past me, admiring the scenery. "...Like your transition."  
  
"My transition?" I echoed.  
  
"Many have trouble adapting to their new surroundings after death. They refuse to admit, and the two worlds collide within them. They can't handle the change on their own."  
  
"So they have guides?" I asked.  
  
He nodded, smiling to himself.  
  
I paused, watching him curiously.  
  
"Is it possible to remain in contact with the other world?" I asked him. "Once someone has made the transition?"  
  
My father glanced at the boat. "It's possible."  
  
"How?"  
  
"We can make visitations. To go down and see a living individual, even speak to them under the right circumstances. For those of us who can't make the transition, there is also the option of starting over again. Returning to Middle Earth to be born again."  
  
"It's possible to never make the complete transition?" I asked him in awe.  
  
He met my eye once more. "I've been up here a relatively short time, Deagol, but I've seen my fair share of transitions." He looked back at me, smiling as if telling a joke. "I haven't seen one never make it, but I certainly haven't seen one take as long and yours."  
  
I must have looked surprised, because he sighed and beckoned for me to walk with him. I stumbled along through the tall weeds, still shaky from my accomplishment.  
  
"We all accept our deaths in a different fashion; some are successful within minutes. Others, hours. Some probably take even longer."  
  
"A day."  
  
"Yes."  
  
I looked over at him, becoming interested in the conversation. "But what determines how long, Captain?"  
  
He glanced down at his feet as he walked. "Usually, the circumstances of one's death." We met eyes. "A one-hundred-year-old hobbit will have a much easier time accepting his fate than a thirty-two-year-old one who's been murdered."  
  
The look of curiosity left my eyes, and I stared down at the ground before me.  
  
And stopped.  
  
My father paused, watching me. "What is it?"  
  
"...There's tracks," I said, puzzled, gazing at the trail of flattened grass leading to the water.  
  
I began to follow them. "Who's tracks are these?"  
  
"I don't know," the Captain said. "You were the one who put them here."  
  
"They look like a hobbit's," I mused, stopping at the edge of the bank. I looked out at the water, trying to follow a mental line. Slowly, I raised my eyes to the opposite shore...  
  
From across the lake, the creature shrieked, startled, and leapt away from the water's edge.  
  
"No, wait!" I shouted, and sprang forward, splashing knee-deep into the water. The creature darted into the trees, disappearing from sight.  
  
It was frog-like, hunching over on all fours as it had crouched on the bank. It had been pale grey in color, with large, ogling eyes that flared in terror as I came towards it.  
  
My father reached out quickly, stopping me.  
  
"Deagol, wait!" he shouted, pulling me back. "Let it go."  
  
I fell back in the tall grass, sitting up to squint across the water. The opposite bank was empty now; the creature was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"What was that thing?" I asked, catching my breath.  
  
"I'm not sure. It might have been a figment; something you thought up long ago. Possibly something from a dream."  
  
"But I've never seen it before in my life."  
  
"Just because you forget a dream doesn't mean you never had it."  
  
I hesitated, then shook my head. "I've never seen such a creature before."  
  
He frowned and stood up straight, but made no response.  
  
I turned to look up at him. "What is it, Captain?"  
  
He paused for a second longer, then spoke.  
  
"Possibly...it could be a memory of the future."  
  
"...The future?" I asked. "You mean I won't remember it until later?"  
  
"No; it won't happen until later.'  
  
Again, I looked puzzled. "But...but how am I seeing it now? Has this ever happened to anyone else before?"  
  
"Occasionally, or so I've been told," he said. "It's another type of connection with the old world. An individual can see something in their subconscious, even before it occurs in real time."  
  
"Why?"  
  
My father gazed at the trees across the lake as though he were expecting the creature to come back out. "It's tied to them emotionally."  
  
He tilted his head to the side slightly, still watching the bushes.  
  
"...There's something about that creature that causes you to feel a certain emotion. It could be joy, anger, anxiety, fear even."  
  
"But I won't understand until later," I finished.  
  
"Possibly. But most likely, you never will."  
  
I remained seated in the grass, allowing this to sink in, then turned back to look at the opposite shore as well. Soon, I too found myself waiting for the smooth, grey head to emerge from the shadows.  
  
But of course, it never did. 


	11. So Juicy Sweet SMEAGOL POV

Disclaimer: I do not own Smeagol, or the movies "What Dreams May Come" or "Return of the King." Nothing in this story, this chapter specifically, is mine.  
  
As you can see from the chapter's title, this part of the story will be told from Smeagol's point of view. I just want to warn you, specifically those of you who weren't a huge fan of Gollum's "Fish-eating scene" in ROTK, this chapter is a bit more morbid than the others, and I guarantee you things are going to get grosser in time.  
  
What Dreams May Come  
  
Alive without breath  
Cold as death  
Never thirsty; ever drinking  
All in mail, never clinking  
  
We smiles to our self, running a long finger through the mud before us, singing the words silently as we draws the image. We shivers absent- mindedly, huddling closer to the rock wall beside us, holding our Precious closer. It is cold out, and we sinks into the mud, always having to shift our feet to stay up.  
  
"Nasty, slimy, grimy it is," we had told it, not wanting to crawl inside.  
  
But it did not care. "Is dry, Precioussss," it hissed to us. "Not wet and stinging like filthy rainses. Is dry under rocks, it is."  
  
We'd only grunted, but decided to consent to its suggestion. The rain was coming down hard, blinding our eyes and dulling our ears. Too difficult to spot juicy grubses in the dirt, or tasty, crunchy little eggses in the trees. Too difficult to see other things, too. Other creatures, and not the tasty little ones. Bigger, meaner things that might think Smeagol is tasty also, like the rotten beast that we'd met the day before.  
  
So we'd agreed to hide under a rock ledge and wait out nasty rain. "To get out of rain," we'd told it, "Out of rain and into mud, Precious."  
  
Drowns on dry land  
Thinks an island  
Is a mountain;  
Thinks a fountain  
Is a puff of air  
  
We had only had fish twice since we'd left home, the second occasion being a rather bitter-sweet experience.  
  
Food had never been a huge problem, not as bad as we'd feared it would be. Insects were a main source; we found them everywhere, and had eventually learned to distinguish a few that tasted somewhat better than the others. Eggs were good, also, and almost as easy to find.  
  
But we wanted fish.  
  
Many days we'd spent crouched in the bushes, watching foxes and bearses catching them by the river, observing their movements. Their habits.  
  
We'd decided to make our move one day. Bears would always sit their fish aside in piles and turn their backses to catch more. We had become accustomed to stealing from other hobbitses back home, and had taught our self to be sneaky and silent.  
  
And of course, we had our Precious.  
  
We had come to discover in a matter of days that it could make us unseen to the other hobbits. Make us invisible, concealed against the wallses. We could disappear into thin air, just by placing Precious on our finger.  
  
Stealing the fish was no task. We sneaked down easily, picked up our prize without making so much as a sniffle.  
  
"Musn't be greedy, Love," it said to us in our head. "Only takes one. He might notice if more go missing, the old brute. Be quick! He can smells us!"  
  
But we had crawled away just as easily as we had approached, and spent the night eating our fish in triumph.  
  
That was our first taste of fish since our banishment.  
  
The second time, howevers, did not go as easily as the first.  
  
We'd found the fish on the bank by the river; stranded itself, it had, now lay dead and rotting on rockses. But no matter. Fish was still fish.  
  
So we'd crawled down to it, began eating it. The flesh was warm, baked in the sun, and it was squirming. Squirming with bugses and maggotses, but we cared not, Precious. We always ate nice crunchy bugs. And flesh was juicy, so juicy. But not as sweet as first one.  
  
Our mistake was that we had rushed. Too excited by fish to be cautious; we went down in plain sight, forgetting to put on the Precious.  
  
We was lucky that we was sitting by the river, eating juicy fish, when we saw the other creature's reflection in the water. We barely escaped, plunged into water and swam away, but not before getting a slash or two to remember our foolishness. It was a bear, we thinks. All happened too quick to recall.  
  
That was the rotten beast we had met the day before.  
  
O! So sleek! So fair  
O! What a joy to eat  
We only wish  
To catch a fish—  
  
"So juicy sweeeeeeeet!" we finishes, grinning down at our drawing in the mud. It is a fish, so juicy and sweet. We can almost tastes it in our mouth as we looks down at it. Oh, how we wishes to taste fish again.  
  
"It likes fishes, Precious?" it asks us.  
  
"Yes we does," we replies, eyes fixed on our picture. Eye is too small; fish have bigger eyeses. We fixes picture, presses fingertips deeper into mud, turning them to make our little hole rounder  
  
"Yes, Precious," we muses to our self. "Very much." We smiles down at it now, and we suddenly remembers old days of fishing. Fishing by the lake. Oh, so long ago, it was. We can barely remember.  
  
"Then why does it scavenge like this?" it asks us. "Sneaks and steals like filthy animals. Why doesn't it catch fish? It likes to catch fish."  
  
We are taken back by its suggestion at first. Why didn't we catch fish? We would spend entire days doing nothing but fishing, always coming home with just enough for supper. Entire hours would be spent, all on catching one fish. But we liked it just the same. Now, with all the time in the world on our handses, we haven't spent a second fishing.  
  
"We doesn't know how," we responds. "Not anymore. So long since we've tried. And takes so long, Precious. So long, and Smeagol doesn't have time. He has to watch for bearses, now, he does."  
  
It spits into the mud, smudging the edge of our picture. "Smeagol needn't fear stupid bearses. Smeagol has been watching them for weeks and they never sees it. We has Precious, Love. Gollum! Gollum!"  
  
"But how does we catch fishes? We has no more hookses. No more lines."  
  
"We doesn't need them. Smeagol has seen bearses catch fishes with their mouths! Smeagol wants to be like animals, it can catch fish like animals!"  
  
And so, once rain had quit, we set out from our shelter and went down to the river.  
  
We were crouched on the rockses, Yellowface beating down on our back, burning and blazing. It was always burning now. Always scorching, sweltering, eating away at us as we lay on rockses, writhing and clutching Precious in our hand.  
  
We hated it, feared it almost. A great, blazing Eye, lidless, glaring down at us furiously. We hated it.  
  
"We sees them," we says, tensing slightly. "We sees fish."  
  
"Then what does it wait for? It wantssss fishes, doesn't it, Precious?"  
  
"We wants them," we agrees, shifting our feet. We glances up at Yellowface, trying not to look into it.  
  
We can feel it tensing, the Other. Tensing inside us. Growing impatient in heat.  
  
"Why does it wait, then?" it asks. "Why does it sit in nasty sunses; filthy Yellowfaces? It should go, go quickly and catch fishes. They does not see it; it's invisible. They swims right up to rockses! It should KILL them!"  
  
But we does not go. Instead, we sits on rocks, watching the fishes. They swims by slowly, lazily, peacefully unaware of the danger above them. We closes our eyes, tries not to look up at Yellowface...  
  
We shakes our head, our throat tightens suddenly.  
  
"No. Not fair. Not fair, Precious!"  
  
"What?" Its tone rises into a menacing growl.  
  
"They does not see!" I whimpers. "They does not know! They is helpless!"  
  
"It is no different than when Smeagol fished with hookses!" it growls. "They did not see then either. And Smeagol has killed fish without hooks before! Hasn't it?"  
  
I says nothing, and can feel its satisfaction growing.  
  
"Yes, it has. It was pushed in, it was. Fell into lake. It dragged nice fish out of water and KILLED it!"  
  
I hunches down further, shrinking into a ball as I pulls arms and legses closer.  
  
"Killed it!" it crows. "Killed it! Just like. It killed. HIM!"  
  
My eyes opens wide, gazes ahead into space as I raises my head. For a moment, we doesn't move. Only stares. Hands begin to tremble. Throat tightens more, almost choking. Vision blurs. We squeezes eyes shut and lowers head.  
  
"No..."  
  
"Yessssss," it hisses, grinning cruelly. "It KILLS him!"  
  
"No, no..."  
  
"It's a MURDERER!"  
  
"NO!" I cries, shaking my head. "We doesn't murder it! We doesn't! Leave us alone!"  
  
"It's a liar! And a thief! It IS a murderer!"  
  
"No; not a murderer!" we insists, close to tearses. "We..."  
  
We stops. Our head is humming, ears buzzing with agony. We inhales sharply, tries to speak again. "We didn't want to hurt him."  
  
We breaths in slowly now, tries to calm our self. "Smeagol didn't want to hurt him," we says again. "Smeagol not a murderer. ...He tried to kill US."  
  
"Yes, it did," it muses. It continues to grin, and we knows it doesn't believe us.  
  
"He tried to kill us first!" we insists. "Smeagol had to kill him. Smeagol would have been killed himself if he hadn't."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It was ours, Precious," we says in a firmer tone. "OUR Precious. It came to us on our birthday, it did. He had it; wouldn't give it to us. Tried to kill us when we wanted it back!"  
  
"He was triksy," it says, finally agreeing. "Nasty sneaky little hobbit, he was. Smeagol is better off without him. Better off without all of them. It doesn't need them."  
  
"No..." I says softly. "We doesn't need them."  
  
"We has Precious. We needs nothing else."  
  
Even as it speaks, we begins reaching, feeling for the Precious on our finger. We can feel it, so round and smooth, cool against our fingers. We suddenly grows anxious, we has to look at it now. Quickly, we pull it off and hold it up. It shines so beautifully in sun, it does. So brightly in our hand, it gleams.  
  
So beautiful.  
  
Drawn to it, we are. Strokes it with long fingerses, turning it in our hands.  
  
"It's our, it is," we says turning our head. A tremor runs up our spine suddenly, welling into our throat.  
  
"Gollum!" we coughs, shuddering as we continue to gaze at it. "Gollum! Gollum!"  
  
Another shudder, and eyes close tight.  
  
"They cursed us," we growls. "Murderer. 'Murderer' they called us. They cursed us and drove us away!"  
  
"It had to kill, Love," it hisses. "Had to kill to survive."  
  
It glances down at fishes. "Now is not the time to be squeamish. It still must kill to survive. Smeagol mustn't be losing his nerve now, mustn't be week."  
  
"Not week," we says, perking up. "We catches fishes!"  
  
"Then puts on the Precious," it says to us, whispering, "and catch them!"  
  
We slips Precious back on our finger, sees our reflection disappear in the water. Carefully, we leans forward, silent as can be. We casts no shadow, fishes do not see. We is just above them now, our face only centimeters from waters.  
  
We must kill to survive.  
  
A fish swims by beneath us. It does not look up; it cannot. We starts to reach for it, but stops. Too far away now, it is. We would only scare the rest off if we tries to catch it. Let it live for now.  
  
We reaches out, instead, for a rock jutting out from the water. Slowly, we leans our weight on it, suspending our self over water. Fish are directly beneath us now. Juicy, sweet fish. Oh, how we longs for that taste once more.  
  
Another fish is coming; it swims so easily, so unsuspecting as it approaches us, approaches death...  
  
We must kill to survive.  
  
Fish is below us...  
  
A cry of anger, hands dart downward. We slips from our position, into water. Fingers clasp slippery fish scales, tightens.  
  
It slides through!  
  
We scrambles wildly. Fish is bouncing off rockses, getting away!  
  
"No!"  
  
We lunges at it again, tries to snatch it back up. Too slippery! It squirms! Hand slams down on fish, trying to stop it. It sails through air, propelled by the force of our blow.  
  
Sails through air and lands on rockses.  
  
Once more, we lunges, eyes spinning madly, fingers snapping, saliva foaming.  
  
"Fish!" we cries, the words to our song coming out in a confused mess. "And we only wish! So juicy sweet!"  
  
Pounces. Grasps. Grip tightens. Got away before, but not this time! We has it, Precious!  
  
Head snaps forward, teeth clamp down. Tear fish from our hands and shakes it, shakes it madly in our jaws, and it squirms. It squirms harder, and we shakes it harder, harder and harder, until squirming stops.  
  
The fish falls from our mouth, thumps lifelessly on rocks at our feet.  
  
Dead.  
  
We breathes heavily, sides heave for air. We've done it, precious. We have caught our fish at last.  
  
Eyes gleaming, it smiles down at our prize.  
  
"So much simpler, isn't it, my love? So much easier to kill. We doesn't have to wait for silly bearses, wait for them to turn their backses. We kills to get fish. We kills to get what we needs."  
  
I cock my head to the side, looking down at our fish with a coldness I have come to know so well now.  
  
"Yes," we murmurs thoughtfully. "Much easier to kill, Precious."  
  
We stoops down suddenly, our nose just over the cold, slimy flesh, smelling its sweet scent.  
  
"So much easier."  
  
* * *  
  
"So dark it is, Precious," we says, squinting into cave. "Freezes, it must."  
  
"Does it rather burn, Precious? Die and rot in nasty sun like filthy beasts? Be blinded by Yellowface, crawl blind on the road, eating dusssst?"  
  
We gazes warily into darkness, fearing it. We does not know it, Precious. It is not home. We knows only that it is not home, it cannot be safe.  
  
But this is not our home, we thinks to our self, We did not know woodses when we left our old home, left nasty hobbitses. But we learned to call it home, learned to feel safe in it, safe from Yellowface, and from Whiteface at night. It was our home, and now we was leaving it behind once more.  
  
"Cold be heart and hand and bone, cold be traveler far from home," we chant softly, trying to see into the shadows. "They do not see what lies ahead when sun has faded and moon is dead."  
  
We looked back, I remembers. Looked over our domain one last time, saw the trees swaying, leaves rustling. Saw grass rolling in the wind, like waves in our river. We saw our river, too, we did. Saw the fish swimming beneath its surface. We could see the rocks where we'd first stood, where we caught our first fish.  
  
The wind was blowing harder that day. We remembers how cool it felt then, blowing softly against our skin, cooling the Yellowface's burns. A parting gift, we'd called it.  
  
And then we had looked away, turned back to darkness in caves, and crawled inside. We hadn't looked back as we'd disappeared into the shadows.  
  
Because we knew, deep in the back of our mind, that we couldn't.  
  
* * *  
  
It watches us, it does. Eyes empty, unseeing, but gazing into ours. Fish is alive, but does not squirm, does not fight.  
  
Only watches us.  
  
Slowly, we bring it up to our mouth, biting down just as slowly. We feels nothing as we pulls it away, tearing flesh. We feels nothing now.  
  
Still, it lives. Its pulse beats in our fingers, but slower. It is dying in our hands, but slowly. We does not spit out its head, we simply holds it in our jaws, looking down inside the half we still hold. We can see its heart beating, forcing black blood towards the opening we have made. The black liquid bubbles, mixed with saliva, and drips onto ground, into water, leaving tiny black swirlses on the surface.  
  
Without a word, we relaxes our jaw, unmoving even as we hears its head bounce on the rocks at our feet, rolling out of sight.  
  
Then, as slowly as we had before, we brings the fish to our mouth, and silently, we begins eating it.  
  
Rock and pool  
Is sweet and cool  
So nice on feet  
We only wish  
To catch a fish  
So juicy sweet... 


	12. What Comes in Time

**WHAT DREAMS MAY COME**

(Back to Deagol's POV now)

It had been almost two weeks since I'd first entered the Afterlife, though according to the rules of time, several years had passed on Middle Earth.

The confusion and frustration of my slow transition were both long-gone, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I could actually lay back on my bed and let out a long sigh of relief. I was finally home.

I spent a lot of my time at home, but on a few rare occasions, I would go down to the clearing and stretch out on the soft grass, taking in the warmth of the sun.

Fishing, though, was little more than a passing memory. I had lost interest in it, though I couldn't determine why. Also, seeing as how I had no gear or bait, I would have been unable to catch anything anyway.

The rest of my time was spent at the Plaza, sitting on the steps and watching the other creatures of long ago carry on happily with their simple lives, so to speak.

The Plaza.

My father had shown it to me the day after my arrival, as a way of congratulating me on my achievement, or so I told myself. A tiny part of me felt, possibly knew, that it was really to take my mind off of the creature. I chose not to bring it up with him again, deciding it had been from a long-forgotten dream, or possibly a silly little story that Old Austo Footrunner would always tell me and the other young hobbit children.

But whatever the reason was that the Captain had done it, I was grateful he did. The Plaza was teeming with life, its vast courts and wide, open-aired stairways and glowing golden-green waters all but overflowing with civilians, walking about, talking amongst themselves, or sitting and resting. They hadn't a care in the world.

Several of them were men, the Big Folk, as we had often called them, tall, clumsy and awkward-looking as they usually were. But there were other men, sturdy, strong men whose presence seemed to fill the minds and very souls of those around them, giving them a rather respectable berth. There were proud, almost elegant men, seeming more like elves in their un-earthly grace and prowess than true men.

But there were real elves as well, though their numbers were much fewer. There was an eerie glow about them all, and I soon learned to spot them from several meters away. They were silent for the most part, usually keeping to themselves. Occasionally, I would spot one having a word with an associate, but little more than this. My father had explained later to me that it was wise to give them a rather wide space; they were not fully accustomed to their new surroundings, seeing as how they were an immortal race. They could not, or probably refused to accept their fates.

And then of course, we saw dwarves, as well as a good number of hobbits, along with a vast number of races that even my father, the fanciful outdoorsman that he was, could not name.

I was amazed at the site of it all, and any thoughts of loneliness or question disappeared instantly on seeing it.

For one week, this was how things went on. Long days of sitting, thinking, looking out over my lake, over the steps and courts of the Plaza, knowing something was missing, but not knowing what it was.

And then she came.

My father had left early one afternoon, saying that he had "business to attend to elsewhere." I hadn't thought much on it, seeing as how he was always off doing other things, and spent the day at the Plaza, watching the tiny boats sailing along the calm waters. Later that afternoon, I found myself standing at the edge of the marble walkway, trying to convince myself to get into a small wooden rowboat, the key word being "trying." Evidently, my dislike of boats had not died away at all with my love of fishing.

"I suppose some things just never change," a voice had said from behind me.

The first thing I thought was how familiar the voice, a hobbit woman's, sounded, and how odd it was that she knew about my age-old dilemma. I turned to speak to her and immediately froze. Suddenly, I was unable to speak.

She was older. Much, much older than she had been the last time I'd seen her. Gone were the dark curls, replaced by grey and white tufts of hair that framed her face like a halo. Her eyes were darker; wearied from years of pain and great loss. Her face was worn, weathered away by heavy hardship. The youthful, wise, somewhat pretty individual I had known growing up was all but a memory.

But I knew instantly, even as I'd looked into her weary and darkened eyes, unfamiliar eyes, that she was my mother.

I'd said something, but I can't recall what. I probably asked if it was really her. Then I was wrapped in a massive embrace that reduced my image of the Plaza to a golden blur around us.

She was back.

And so another week had come and gone, much faster than the first. Never before had I seen my mother so happy. Finally, she had been reunited with her husband and son, both of whom she had missed dreadfully. For her, the pain was over. We were all together now.

But still there was someone missing.

I'd asked my father if I could go with him, but he'd no. I still wasn't ready to cross over into the Old World. And so I was left to stand beside the front door, fidgeting uncontrollably.

My mother smiled. "Look at you. You're still nervous about him."

"I know," I said sheepishly. I stared down at my feet. "I just keep wondering what he'll be like. He was a child the last time I saw him. I'll never recognize him now."

She looked at me from the side. "You sound just like you did before he was born. Always worrying what it would be like, always wondering if you would be good enough for him."

"I was the closest thing he would have to a father. It was a big part to fill."

"You filled it well," she said softly. "You know that."

I turned to look her straight in the eye. "Do I?" I said stiffly.

Neither of us said anything for a long time. She hadn't expected such a response from me, and wasn't sure how to respond. Never had I spoken so openly to my mother about my feelings towards Beragol, even though she knew well that I lacked confidence in myself. But time had changed me, made me more blunt and less cautious. Just the same, I felt guilty for acting the way I did just then.

"I'm sorry," I said, looking out at the horizon over the hill. "It's just so much to take in."

I looked down suddenly. "I mean, it's just odd. I never thought I'd be overjoyed to hear that my brother died."

My mother didn't look at me when she spoke. "Yes," she agreed flatly. "It's very odd."

……………………………..

Even though forty-nine years had changed my mother since the last time I'd seen her, I was still able to recognize her. She hadn't grown or shrunk, widened or slimmed; only aged. Her hair had turned lighter, and her face had grown wrinkles, but she essentially looked the same to me.

When my father appeared over the horizon with another old, gray hobbit man in toe, I almost refused to believe that it was Beragol.

Gone was the little seven-year-old I'd left behind, now replaced by a weathered old man with dark gray, almost lifeless curls and a wrinkled forehead. His eyes were no longer bright and cheerful, no longer optimistic and naïve from youth. Now they were gray as well, though they'd grown sharper with his grown attitude, and had been made all the more stronger from having to support his bushy, silvery eyebrows.

Looking at his face, I never would have believed that he was in any way related to me, but when I spotted the floppy gray fishing hat slumped on his head, my doubts were drowned away. He was wearing my hat, the very same hat I'd been wearing the day…

It was Beragol. It was my brother.

"You haven't changed a bit!" he shouted with excitement after we'd been reintroduced and our parents had left us to ourselves. We were sitting together on the front porch of our house, trying to remember the old times when we used to sit there every day.

"Wish I could say the same about you, _little brother_!" I laughed back. "You've gotta be at least seventy years older than me now!"

"A hundred and four!" he said proudly, sitting up straight with a twinkle in his eye. "I took pretty good care of myself."

I smiled and picked up the fishing hat from the step below us. "This is mine, isn't it?" I asked him wittily. "Look how ratty it's gotten! Doesn't look like you took as good a care of _it_!"

"It's been through its fair share of excitement!" he laughed.

I shook my head in thought, turning it slowly in my hands. "I thought I lost it that day at the lake. Someone must've found it."

Suddenly, the twinkle left Beragol's eyes, replaced by the sharpness that I'd never gotten to watch him first adopt. He studied my face for a second before he spoke. "You don't…happen to know what happened to him, do you?"

I knew who he meant by "him."

I shook my head. "No. What happened?"

Beragol never broke his eye contact. "Well, I don't know what happened to him throughout the _rest_ of his life. Last I remember of him was when they banished him."

I raised my eyebrows in an unsurprised gesture. "Well, that I did see more or less. You know? I saw him alone… Heard him mumble something about it…"

"That was all?" Beragol asked, sounding strangely disappointed.

"Yes." I looked at him oddly. "…Why?"

"Well you missed the good part," he went on. "It was about two weeks after _it_ happened, with you… I was in the kitchen with Mum, and he came up to her and asked to see her in the other room, alone. So she followed him in, I stayed in the kitchen. 'Bout ten minutes later, I heard her screaming at him, calling him a liar and what not." He sent me a sideward, disgusted glance. "A murderer. A lousy wretch who killed her son.."

A knot started to form in my stomach at the tale. How had I missed this before I'd gone away completely?

Beragol turned his eyes away from me and went on. "Naturally, that got my attention, so I went into the next room to see them. Got there just in time to see her knock the piece of filth off his feet. She was kicking him and screaming and crying…for I don't know how long. Then he finally got up on all fours and crawled away from her, past me. Then she ran after him, chased him right out of the house. And I was too scared to follow them outside, so I watched it through the window." Anger began to grip his features as he continued.

"He was lying on the ground out there, crying about how it wasn't his fault and it was an accident and he didn't know how it happened. Said he didn't know why he did it, either. And he stuck to that pack of lies.

"Of course, by then the whole neighborhood had heard what was going on and they all came out of their houses. A minute later, they were all at it too. All of them. All kicking and stomping and punching and throwing things at him, all screaming…and in the end, they ran him right out of town."

He said this last part with what sounded like nothing short of sadistic satisfaction. I felt a tingle run up my spine as I stared at the old, bitter hobbit who had once been my innocent little brother. Life had dealt him a hard lesson much too early, and he hadn't dealt well with it at all. _I_ had dealt him a hard lesson…

I blinked suddenly as I gave the story a deeper thought. "Wait. …Smeagol confessed to it?"

Beragol lowered his eyes then, but not his head. "He certainly did. And a couple days after he was chased off, Mum told me what _he'd_ said. He strangled you didn't he? Yeah, he wasn't lying, then. Said it was all over something you found at the lake. A piece of gold or something just as stupid. Nothing worth killing anyone for." He looked at me again. "Was it for something like that?"

The ring.

I shuddered inwardly at the thought of it. That ring. That tiny little trinket that I'd seen glittering in the water. The same trinket that I'd fought over with Smeagol, the trinket that he'd killed me for.

But then another memory from that day suddenly flashed into my mind, another memory of my last moments alive.

Anger.

I remembered that look, that glare that Smeagol had sent me before he killed me. Anger. The look of anger…as I began strangling him.

The knot in my stomach wrenched even tighter, and I had to fight every effort in my sick body to keep from doubling over at this horrific realization.

I'd tried to strangle him first…

I nodded, finally answering Beragol's question. "Yes," I forced out.

He turned his gaze away again, misreading the pain on my expression.

"But you know what made me the angriest?" he asked. "The night before that piece of filth said what he'd done, he was telling me all about how much he missed you and… how I shouldn't be worried about you dying…"

He ran his fingers through his hair jadedly. "…It was all a lie…"

I felt like I'd been run through with a lance.

That night in Beragol's room. That night that Smeagol had come in and comforted him. That night that I was watching them, unheard and unseen. Beragol remembered that night as well, just as clearly as I did. But he hadn't seen everything.

I had seen the horrified look on Smeagol's face when my little brother wrapped his arms around him, sobbing, and I'd seen that troubled, sickly look in his weary eyes as he returned the gesture. And I'd seen him sobbing alone in the dark with nothing but my old teddy bear to keep him together.

My head was spinning. Smeagol hadn't been discovered like I'd assumed. He'd truly been sorry. He'd seen all the pain he had caused my family, and he'd confessed his crime to them, only to be beaten and cast out from the village where he'd lived his life.

And he'd crawled all the way to our clearing by the lake, the only other place that he'd ever called home, to try and rid himself of that horrible trinket that had somehow, in some way brought him to do this terrible thing. The same terrible thing that I had almost done to him. And he couldn't bring himself to, because it was the only thing he had left to cling to in his destroyed life. I didn't need to see the scene Beragol had described to me; I'd seen and heard enough to realize this on my own. So why hadn't I?

It was this haunting question that kept me awake that entire night, screaming and kicking at me with a strength that my entire village could only imagine.


End file.
